


I was raised to love these mountains.

by lokiloo



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Derek Feels, Derek Has Issues, Eventual Romance, F/F, F/M, Fix-It, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Slow Build, derek gets the fuck out of dodge and learns to be happy, sterek
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-19
Updated: 2014-02-05
Packaged: 2018-01-05 03:52:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 20,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1089292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lokiloo/pseuds/lokiloo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek picks up what's left of his life, and moves to North Carolina. He finds something beautiful, and learns what peace is. And how to raise a cow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [seasofgreen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/seasofgreen/gifts).



> I just want Derek to be happy. And I think getting away from Beacon Hills is a good start.
> 
> FOR KERRI because she's helped me through this and proofread and listened to be complain about this forever.
> 
> The next part should be up soon!

Derek wakes up on a Tuesday morning and realizes he’s alone.

Of course he’s alone - his apartment is his and only his, Isaac moved out months ago and Cora disappeared somewhere. He doesn’t have people stay over, there’d be no reason for him to expect someone to be here. But it’s beyond that - beyond the superficial thought of ‘I am the only one in this apartment’.

Derek realizes he’s the only one in his life.

Scott has taken over Beacon Hills’ many responsibilities, and he’s doing 500% better than Derek ever did. People don’t die anymore, don’t go missing, don’t end up tied to trees or eaten or sacrificed to elder gods. Scott has a pack, a healthy one, and the town benefits from it. He has an alliance with the Argents. He and Stiles have the Police on his side. His mother has enough connections to work the hospital angle. And of course, Deaton works with Scott, teaches him, mentors him. Of course.

There are threats, situations, but Scott’s pack deals with them. Most of the time, it doesn’t end in bloodshed- Lydia and Stiles simply talk, explain, persuade or threaten. Derek can count on his fingers the times he’s had to really step in; most of the time, he just stood there looking menacing. The town of Beacon Hills was well protected. Derek could honestly say the town was safer than it’s been in years. 

So lying in his bed, staring at the ceiling fan, Derek realizes he has to leave. For good.

He understands his role in Beacon Hills’ events. He understands, accepts it - everything wrong in this town can be traced to him. It’s polite of them to not mention it, but Derek knows everyone knows. He knows Stiles does, at least, and he doubts it’s taken the others that long to find out. He doesn’t hide his sins, would never attempt to, but it does sting to realize just how terrible he must look to them. A stupid child, letting lust turn him into a murderer. And not just once, no, so many times.

He’d found solace, some redemption, in helping. But it’s clear, to everyone in this damn town, that he’s never done shit. He never helped - he made things worse. He causes more trouble than he fixes. He’d been a stick of dynamite, tossed in and destroying everything.

So he knows, with a clarity he hadn’t felt in a long time, that he has to leave. He has to go, before he ruins something else. Before he ruins Scott’s happiness- everyone’s happiness.

He has to go.

 

He packs two bags; one full of clothes, the other various things he refuses to part with. A box of his mother’s jewelry, a sweater of Laura’s. His father’s notes from his last case, handwritten and sloppy with coffee stains.

A book Scott and Stiles had given him, beat up and worn.

He packs everything, leaving by the front door so he doesn’t forget. He expects someone to comment - Scott when he comes over for a question, Lydia when she borrows the van. But if they notice, they don’t say anything. Derek doesn’t hurt, not really. They have other things on their minds, more important things.

He does tell them, though.

“I’m leaving soon,” he’d said, as Scott and Stiles craned their heads over one of Peter’s old books.

Stiles had glanced up, distracted. “What?”

“I’m leaving,” he’d repeated. He stood in the kitchen, watching the way the sun caught dust from the window. “Soon.”

Derek sees Stiles back at the book. Scott doesn’t seem to even notice, too intent on a terrifying illustration of what Mermaids did to unfortunate sailors.

“Well, have fun.” Stiles had thrown out, already back to writing notes.

Derek looked back at the dust, spinning in the light. It doesn’t hurt, if they don’t care. It doesn’t.

 

Derek wakes up on a Wednesday at 4:00 AM, groggy and uncomfortable. His flight leaves at 7:30, and he wants to get there with time to spare. He makes a sweep of the house, checking twice to make sure he has everything he needs. He makes sure to leave a note, leaves the keys to the van with the stern warning that it should be used for Emergencies, and that at all times Lydia was in charge of it. He makes a cup of coffee - the last one he’ll have in this room. He takes his last trash with him, locking the door and slipping his key under the mat.

He waits on the curb for the cab, letting the chill wash over him. He wonders if he’s supposed to feel anything; sad, or excited. He just feels cold, inside and out.

The cab pulls up with no fanfare. He gets in, says his destination, and they’re off. The ride is quiet, neither of them wanting to speak. It’s a little uncomfortable, but Derek has suffered worse. The sun rises, and it feels gritty and false. He closes his eyes, wondering if anyone has remembered he’s leaving.

He gets though security pretty quickly, ends up at his gate an hour before his scheduled flight. It’s not crowded at all, and most of the passengers are too sleepy or nervous to make much noise. Derek watches the news on a tiny TV above, and checks his phone. There are no texts or calls. He isn’t disappointed.

When they call to board, Derek gets up and looks around, just once. He can admit, if only to himself, that he wants to see someone there. He wants to see Stiles or Scott, someone rush through the airport shouting his name. He imagines them running to him, telling him to stay, begging him to not leave. That they need him, that they don’t want him to go.

He gets on the plane, sits in his window seat and closes his eyes. Life doesn’t send grand gestures, doesn’t hand him precious things. He should know this, and it hurts that he still thinks it could happen. He turns off his phone, still without calls or texts, and watches the plane take off. The sky is exceedingly beautiful. 

Derek thinks he should be feeling something. Relief, or sadness. Anger. But all he feels is tired. He’s so tired, and he doesn’t even know why.

He falls asleep next to a man from Jersey, and dreams of a beautiful Christmas dinner. It’s on the beach, the sky a stormy grey. There are name tags on plates- his families’, and also everyone in Beacon Hills. But only Derek’s there, at the head of the table. The murky ocean tide comes, pulling the table into the ocean, and Derek doesn’t understand why he’s so alone.

 

He wakes when they land, the arrival jarring him from sleep. It’s amazing that he’d slept the whole way; he can’t remember the last time he’d slept for more than four hours. He’s hungry, when he steps off the plane, hungry enough he buys one of the stupid overpriced sandwiches. He sits down at a nearby table, watches the people walk around him. He thinks about the last time he’d been to New York, sacred and shaking, Laura holding his hand in between her own bouts of crying.

He thinks it’s the exact last place he wants to be.

Walking to the flight board, he searches for one leaving soon - finds one for Charlotte, North Carolina. He realizes he’s never seen a mountain, and the thought leaves him sad. He buys a ticket, end up leaving in ten minutes. He’s in an aisle seat, next to a woman with large headphones. As they take off, he thinks he couldn’t possibly fall asleep.

He’s out cold in seconds.

 

Charlotte is busier than he expected. It’s a big city, and he’d known that on some level, but it’s still surprising. Then again, he’d never been to a southern state, and his frame of reference is ridiculous reality TV and stereotypes.

He doesn’t want a big city, though. He doesn’t know what he wants, exactly, but it’s not this. He walks around, ignoring smells and sights and cursing his hasty planning.

At a hotel, he picks up tourist pamphlets, flipping through pictures of mines and tree-top explorations. His eye catches on one about a Cherokee village; it’s not the village that makes him stop, but the beautiful mountains behind it. Their smoky tops looked massive, even with the houses curling up and down their sides. They looked ancient, proud and steady, and Derek wonders if he could howl at their peak.

He leaves in the morning, heading for Maggie Valley.

 

It’s a pretty small town, though it’s close to a lot of other small towns, so Derek thinks of it roughly the same as Beacon Hills. It’s a tourist destination, he’s informed, and while there’s always a steady stream of visitors, summer is the worst. He walks the historic downtown, little general stores and specialty shops, and admires the brownstone buildings and wooden panel stores.

He buys a coffee, sits in the cool breeze outside. H watches a couple stroll down, hand in hand. He breathes in a scent - crisp, unyielding. He thinks it might be the mountains, might be the town itself.  
He decides, yeah, he could live here.

He walks back down the street, to a little shop specializing in tea and spices. He’d noticed the black cat, staring at him with knowing eyes, and it’s comforting to know that this community has at least one supernatural being in it.

He enters, tiny wind chimes announcing him. The cat has moved, now sits on the counter near a dark woman with even darker hair. She smiles at him, ready to great, but within a second realizes what he is.

“Well, hello there.” she grins. The cat blinks. “I’m surprised to see one such as yourself.”

Derek’s rusty at this, but he’s not forgotten everything. He walks to the counter, keeps his hands in plain sight. He smiles as well - not a cheap one, not fake. She’d be able to tell the difference.

“Hello. I’m Derek Hale.”

The cat stands between them, and Derek tries not to fidget. He’s seen only two familiars, before this, but he knows how powerful they are. He knows it’s judging him, and it rankles, but it’s also perfectly within reason. Derek is the outsider, the intruder, and the cat will do anything and everything in its power to protect its master. Derek can appreciate that.

The woman pets the cat absently, still smiling. “My name’s Waya; I run the spice shop here - and the other shop, I’m sure you’re aware.” She gestures to the back, the door shut tight and sporting an intricate moon and cat design. “What can I do for you?”

The cat’s still staring at him, gold eyes eerie, but Derek soldiers on despite discomfort. “I was actually wondering about moving here. Could you tell who I’d need to meet with?” It’s important he check with whatever else lived here, else step on toes.

The woman looks surprised, doesn’t bother to hide it. “Well, there’s really only my coven, but there’s a pack about 30 miles west; I don’t know if they’ll be ok with another group coming in.”

It hurts, that she’d assume he’d be here with a pack. It hurts that in a normal situation, she’d be right.

“It’s actually just me,” he says, and she’s even more shocked. “I just…needed to leave.” The cat stares at him, unblinking, and Derek gives in and closes his eyes. “I’m tired.”

Waya’s hand reaches to touch him, warm and small, and he opens his eyes to her understanding smile. “One of my coven needs a hand around his farm. You could take a look, see if you’re up for it?” The cat’s friendly now, rubbing on Derek and purring.

He doesn’t smile, but he doesn’t frown. “Sure.”

 

Mr. Dobson is an old man; happy in a way that comes with a hard life lived well. He’s unassuming, in his overalls and floppy hat, and Derek thinks he would be the last person to suspect as a witch.

“The house was my Granddad’s,” He says, walking him up the steep drive way. The house is old, all stone and log sides, sturdy and withstanding. “Built it with his own hands, he did.” They come up the hill to the house, and he sees the creek that flows through the property, leading to a little pond and running off again. Near the house is a simple stable, empty but for hay barrels.

“It’s beautiful,” he says, and it’s true. It’s a strong beauty, by itself, but the dogwoods and pines surrounding give it soft light. The reds and golds of the leaves frame the buildings like holiday print, and the crisp air makes everything seem that much sharp. It’s beautiful, and Derek can’t believe he might be able to live here.

He turns to Mr. Dobson, hands tucked away. “I don’t understand why you’re selling it.”

The man smiles, gestures to the empty stalls and dusty porch. “I’m gettin’ older. Can’t walk the hills, certainly can’t work the stable. I live with my daughter and her wife, and it’s fine enough for me.” He steps on the porch, moving to open the door, and Derek follows. “We’ve gotten offers, of course. This is good land, healthy.” He opens the door, and they step inside. The air is stuffy full of dust, and Derek almost sneezes. “’Course the folks who want it, they all want to tear it down, build a big cabin for rich folk and the like.”

The tour the house, and even bare and empty it’s lovely. Big rooms, high ceilings- two stories of dark wood and big windows. A large front room, a dining room attached, and a big kitchen on the first floor, along with a laundry room and a small office space and bathroom. Upstairs, three bedrooms, one a huge master with a large bathroom.

They end up on the second story porch, the one connected to the master bedroom. There’s nowhere to sit, so the lean on the rails, looking out to the mountain view. Tall peaks overlap, casting shadows on valleys. Their tagged tips, like molars, rise and fall with the weight of a forest - reds, yellows, orange, interspersed with the greens of pines. In the lowering sun, it looks like a forest set on fire.

“I can’t let this place die,” Mr. Dobson says, and Derek understands. He thinks about his own home, so far from here. Of the charred remains, gutted and destroyed.

Derek shakes the chill from his bones. “I’ll make sure that doesn’t happen.”

 

Within the week, the entire coven has helped him move in. There’s almost twenty of them, not including children and significant others, and Derek’s exhausted from social interaction. But they’re all good people, all too happy to see another Paranormal take over the farm. They give him old furniture, handmade blankets and quilts, and Derek ends up with more preserved fruits and jam the he thinks he can eat. 

At the end of the week, he has a livable house. It’s kind of special, disregarding that everything was donated. He feels like he has a home, though - not a house, or a living space. (Or a burned out shell, an abandoned train car, and an empty loft stained red.) 

As a house warming gift, Mr. Dobson had given him a bottle of blackberry wine, waving off the fact that he couldn’t get drunk.

“You don’t need to get drunk to appreciate a drink,” He’d said, and Derek can’t argue that. But he finds, sitting on the empty living room on his secondhand couch, that drinking alone sounds pretty terrible.

He’d been told that cell phones were pretty much useless unless he went down to the actual valley. The coven had left their landline numbers on the kitchen counter, scribbled on little post-it notes and torn out notebook paper. He decides to call Waya, see if she’s up for company.

She comes over with Angela and Kathy, who had respectively donated a quilt and a wifi-receiver. They drive up in a small pick-up, and Derek meets them at the gate to let them in.

Waya pulls up, her familiar Spooky in the passenger seat. In the backseat, Angela and Kathy wave. “Hope you didn’t mind a bigger party.”

“I don’t,” He says, waiting till Waya pulls in before he shuts the metal gate. “I don’t think I have enough wine for everyone though.”

Angela pops out of the window, holding up two bottles. “I got us covered.”

They end up on the front porch, the rocking chairs and porch swing holding them all. The watch stars come out, little pricks of light shining through the purple sky. The blackberry wine is good, though sweet. The girls chug moonshine like water, and Derek knows werewolf or not, he couldn’t keep up with them.

They don’t ask him why he’s here, alone. They don’t mention his only two bags, or his obvious lack of plans. They don’t even mention his blue eyes, glowing in the cold September night. They don’t mention anything, drinking on the porch, except that the farm could use an animal or two.

They spend the night, too drunk to drive back, and Derek understands why the coven gave him enough beds and frames for all the rooms. They expect to be here with him, to stay in his life. He’s not sure if it’s because of the ties to the land, or the fact that he’s a werewolf without a pack. He’s not sure if he minds, either.

Derek stays on the porch a little while longer. Spooky sits with him, content to rest on his lap. In the cold night, He doesn’t know what emotion he’s feeling. Not sure if he wants to.

He ends up sleeping under two handmade quilts, Spooky curled around his head. He dreams of running though a forest as a real wolf, reaching a giant pine in the forest and staring up and up and up.

 

The property is huge. He knows, in actuality, five acres isn’t that big. But the mountain, in its twists and dives, makes everything seem huge. There are trees he can’t wrap his arms around, plants growing taller than two him. The creek winds itself all around, scenting the air damp and green. He ruins a pair of sneakers, and he doesn’t care a bit.

He sticks his feet in the creek, despite the freezing water. He likes how clear it is, how the river rocks feel - smooth, ageless. He grabs a few, and then a few more, ends up keeping them in the kitchen.

In the company of the forest, he doesn’t have to say anything. And that works well.

 

He can tell the coven itches to take care of him. He gets invites to dinners, to picnics, and drinking and bonfires. There isn’t a day that comes where he isn’t answering a phone call, and any trip into town takes three times as long as he’d like, because everyone and their family wants to speak to him.

He’s flattered, and he’s very appreciative, but it’s a bit much. He’s exhausted just talking to them, and he doesn’t think he could handle the (impressively large) social calendar the coven seems to abide by.

He worries he comes off as ungrateful- or just as bad, uninterested. The last thing he wants to do is offend them.  
In time, they seem to realize that he doesn’t require the constant barrage of social interaction. That it’s better to leave standing offers he can respond to. He eats occasional dinners at the Dobson house, learns to cook from Angela. He’s still invited, but it’s without so much pressure.

He’s so relived he feels like crying. He wishes he weren’t so broken, so backwards from a normal wolf. He wants to tell them that they were right; they were doing everything right for a werewolf. He wants to explain it’s his fault, but that would mean explaining everything, and he doesn’t- he can’t do that, he can’t.

He can’t have these people, these beautiful people, look at him with disgust. He can’t have them see just how much of a monster he is. Not yet. Please, not yet.

 

There is a tree in the forest, a tall oak that chokes out the sun from other trees. It’s roots tangle the ground, it’s truck scratched and slashed by age. It looks viscous, dangerous, and he realizes how similar it is to another tree. One far away, but suddenly feels far too close.

He doesn’t return to that part of the forest for a long time.

 

He has a standing reservation (agreement?) at the Dobson household for coffee. At least, that’s what Mr. Dobson calls it.

Most people take coffee to mean a conversation, the coffee serving as sort of social card to permit bouts of gossip or catching up. Mr. Dobson is exceptional in that his coffee invitations are entirely that of coffee, and a slice of his most recent pie.

There is no inane conversation, or words of wisdom, or any talking at all, really. They sit on the porch and watch the hummingbirds dart in out of their bushes, sipping nectar as they themselves sip bitter black espresso.

It is one of his favorite things, he comes to realize.

 

About three weeks into his new life, he gets the wi-fi working. While he’d protested the idea at first, Waya had assured him of its practicality.

“You don’t know a thing about living here, and you don’t seem like the type to call for help.” Derek wanted to protest, but Spooky stared him down from the counter. He shuffled lamely, instead.

“I’d ask for help if I needed it.”

Waya outright laughed at him, but not without fondness. “Get your wi-fi working. Besides, you don’t want to be bored, right?”

He’d scoffed of course, at the idea of the mountains becoming boring. He’d spent an entire day walking up its side; winding through the man-made trails and the animals’ ones. He’d spent another cleaning out the pond, dredging leaves and moving rocks to his liking. It was like the air, crisp and embracing, had given him purpose. He’d chopped logs for winter, sealed windows, even figured out how to get the tiny garage door to open.

But, like Waya’d said, it’d gotten pretty old. And living by yourself on an empty mountain farm meant that free time was at an record high.

So he gets the wi-fi working, along with Angela’s old laptop he’d bought off her for $100, and starts looking up things he could do. There’s cooking, which seems pretty enjoyable, and baking goes into that too- cookies, cakes, brownies and bread fill his house, and soon he’s making weekly trips delivering it. One of the coven buys him a book on decorating, and he’s please how well he’s picking it up. He’s thought about knitting, but a quick look to the heap of donated blankets changes his mind.

He’d always been crafter, but time and murders hadn’t given him a lot to work with. It’s incredible that he has the chance to make a bookshelf, to pick leaves for a garland. That he can spend an afternoon surfing Pintrest, and the next actually working on projects. The downstairs office room becomes a work room, and is soon cluttered with fabric remnants and picture frames. Kathy runs the craft store, and is amused by his indecision between sewing machines. Marla and her husband Ed, who run the fabric store, offer to save the cast offs and throw-away pieces just for him. He starts becoming a regular to the green market and the local bakery, and soon little ladies begin handing him recipes for rhubarb pie and honey bread.

Waya comes over, every so often, bringing tea and Spooky. They watch Netflix, usually, but sometimes they just talk. It’s never anything soul searching, or that important, but they never fail to laugh. And it’s nice enough that they continuous to do it.

On one such day, Waya complains about rude costumers, and Spooky decides his life’s mission to destroy Derek’s hand when it comes into sight.

“Why isn’t he scared of me?” Derek asks. Spooky continues to bat, almost boxing his wrist. “Or hate me?”

Waya shrugs. “He’s been packed with enough magical energy I don’t anything scares him. As for hate, it’s all to do with raising them right.” She reaches over and pulls Spooky to her lap. The cat goes limp, content to be dragged around. “When they’re kittens, we get ‘em used to magic, even if they’re not gonna be familiars. We drag ‘em around to meet whatever supernatural beings are around, too. It’s healthy, that they don’t freak out at everything.”

Derek pauses. “So they aren’t afraid of werewolves normally?”

“Nope,” Waya answers, moving Spooky up and down like a see-saw. He doesn’t react. “Animals just gotta get used to things.”

Derek leans back in the couch. “I’m getting one.”

 

He’s incredibly lucky, because the Yates family have a litter about ready to go. Only their son had magic, but the entire family participated in the coven - they’d given him the two twin bedframes that sit in one guest room. Derek likes them, but they also remind him of his own family. He’s big enough to admit it hurts.  
“Derek!” Mrs. Yates exclaimed, hugging him as soon as he’d entered the doorway. “It’s so good to see you, come sit down! We’ll bring in the kittens, just sit down and relax!”

Derek sits down in their living room, looks at the worn carpets and family photos. There are simple knickknacks and fine china displayed, and a grandfather clock that looks as old and valuable as heirlooms usually are. It smells like plastic toys and home cooked meals.

Derek’s heart lurches, then, and he misses his family so much it aches.

But then Mrs. Yates come back in with her daughter, Elizabeth, and between the two of them there are five cats - four kittens, and one beautiful mother.

“This is Queeny,” Elizabeth says, holding the mother out for Derek to take. It startles him, and he’s worried the cat will hiss and scratch, but true to Waya’s word she doesn’t freak. She paws at him, sniffs a bit, but doesn’t freak.

Queeny is a - ragdoll, he thinks. She’s fluffy, and the color of milk tea, and her eyes as blue as his are in beta form. Her kittens, however, seem mixed. A few are fluffy, and few are the same pale color. But it looks like her partner was a tabby of some sort, based on the markings around her litter’s faces.

They are all ridiculously adorable. Derek realizes this, now that there are cats who don’t want to claw his eyes out. He picks one up, and it meows at him, all big blue eyes and puffy fur. She’s smaller than the rest, almost fits in his hands, and she doesn’t look the three-months she is.

“That’s Phoenix,” says Mrs. Yates. “She’s the runt. We weren’t sure if she was gonna make it, the first few nights, but she sure showed us.” Phoenix sits in his hands, blinking up with doe eyes. “She’s a sweetheart.”

Derek runs a finger over her ears, feels the warm velvet. She vibrates in his hand, and he realizes she’s purring.

“I’ll take her.”

 

Phoenix takes to the house immediately. She runs across the hardwood, chases Derek’s socked feet when he walks. She watches the sparrows from the living room sill, and begins to walk the stairs all on her own. He breaks her out of the fascination with his fabric swatches, though, because he doesn’t want to worry about rips when he’s embroidering.  
He’d worried about her opinion of living with a werewolf, and he’s pleased to find out she likes him. She’ll crawl onto his lap, soak up attention like dry soil. He suspects he’s spoiling her, picking her up all the time, cuddling and kissing, but he can’t be bothered. She’s his cat, and she’s wonderful, and he’ll treat her like a queen because of it. That’s how she ends up with a giant cat tree, and a pretty leather collar, and a basket of toys she rarely plays with.

She fills up space in his life; she’s there on the counter when he cooks, walks with him in the cold grass, sleeps on his back. Phoenix is genuinely happy that he exists in her life, and it’s not because he’s in control of the food. At least, he doesn’t think so.

He ends up bringing her everywhere, because she’s small and fits in his pocket. They go to the market, where ladies coo at her. They go to Tractor Supply, and she’s entranced by the chicks for sale. They visit Waya in the shop, and she gets along with Spooky like cousins at a carnival- or, at least, that’s how Waya puts it. They go to Ingles, and little cafes, and never once does she try and jump out. Kathy raises a brow when he comes in for more canvases.

“You bring her everywhere?”

Phoenix mewls, and Derek is unashamed. “Yes.”

 

Derek works on his projects, and Phoenix sleeps on his feet while he does. He stays up with single-minded focus, often, but it’s always startling to look at the clock and see the hour hand. It’s fine, though, because he after a while he actually finishes one. Only one, but it’s really finished. He sets it on the shelf, dissects it, goes back and forth and looks at it more and more until he finally just steps back and breathes. He likes it. He likes it a lot.

He doesn’t finish all of them, but he doesn’t have to. They’re coming together, and he’ll be done when he’s done. The fact that he’s made one, at least, settles him.

He sleeps with Phoenix on his back, and he dreams of a tightly wound ball of yarn. He pushes it, softly, and it rolls away, unraveling. Phoenix chases it, until it’s nothing but yards of string.

 

Every once in a while, he’ll think about contacting someone in Beacon Hills. He thinks about making a Facebook page, adding Scott and Stiles, the coven. He thinks about calling them- thinks about what they’d say. If they’d be happy to hear from him, or if he’d interrupt something. Maybe they’d be confused- why are you calling? Didn’t you leave? Do you need something? Did you mess something up?

He doesn’t, of course. Make a Facebook. Or call. Or email. Or do anything of the sort. He doesn’t check up on what they’re doing, doesn’t read the online version of Beacon Hills Journal, doesn’t even look at the County’s arrest and warrant site. He’s proud of himself, actually. Very proud.

He ends up calling Angela, and they talk about the Coven’s plan of a dinner on Saturday. Of course he’s invited, and he doesn’t need to bring anything, but actually could he grab some dinner rolls for it because Yolanda’s great but she’ll forget it because of her new baby. Or he could make something, actually, just no desserts because everyone makes desserts, oh Derek you’re such a sweetheart!

He ends the call, smiling, and grabs Phoenix for a trip to town.

 

Life is uneventful, in the most exciting way possible. Derek goes to town, in his beat up truck, and buy groceries every week. He visits the coven member’s homes. He works on projects, he reads books. He goes to coven meetings, and shifts under a full moon. He sleeps with a cat that grows bigger every day.

No one is murdered. No one is brutally tortured. No one dies in his arms, or by his hand. No one uses him for their own gains.

He wakes up one morning with the intent of making omelets, and halfway to the kitchen he realizes how light he feels. How his shoulders don’t hurt, how his face doesn’t feel as tight. He realizes that he’s happy. Not a superficial, temporary one, but a bone deep contentment. He’s happy.

He stands in his kitchen, wearing boxer shorts, and says it out loud. “I’m happy.” He whispers. “I’m happy.”

He doesn’t remember the last time he’s felt this good. It was probably before his family died. It was probably even before that. He’s happy, and it’s such a revelation he feels like he needs to sit down.

So of course he has to ruin it by buying a cow. 

 

He doesn’t know this at the time, or course. He’d just gone to Waya’s shop and heard Mr. Dobson mention a friend selling livestock.

“He’s selling them all?” He asked, and Mr. Dobson had nodded.

“Yup. Decided he’s gonna move to Florida, sellin’ all his animals to the first people who’ll take ‘em.” Derek nods, but freezes when he continues, “The one’s left by the end of the week get shipped.”

His confusion showed, and Waya answered with a shrug. “He’s gonna sell ‘em to a butcher.”

Derek understands where meat comes from. He’s not an idiot. But the thing is, he’s met some pretty sweet cows here. The witches raise a lot of animals, and he’d enjoyed petting the horses and goats. Their milk makes soap the coven sells, and he knows he difference between a milk cow and cow bred for meat. He thinks about the ones he’d met, and he doesn’t like the idea.

So he does something stupid, though he doesn’t know it at the time. He turns to Mr. Dobson and asks, “How many are left?”

 

The answer is Clara.

Clara is an old brown cow, too old to breed for milk. She has big brown eyes, two big spots on her stomach, and she comes with an old bell around her neck.

She also hates Derek’s guts.

He’d forgotten, of course, that normal animals hate werewolves. Clara wasn’t raised with the supernatural, doesn’t know the difference between Danger and Different. She’s standoffish the moment she gets to the farm, pulls against her rope and moos loudly.

Mr. Fredricks, who brought her over himself, apologizes. “She’s stressed from the move, you should probably give her a few days to settle. Let her get to know you.”

Derek thanks him, of course, and says he’ll do just that. Of course he can’t do that, because he knows she understands what he is. She may not understand exactly what he is, but he thinks she gets the gist of it.

Wolf. Hunter. Dangerous.

The distrust of an old cow shouldn’t matter, but it makes Derek curl up in front of the fire with Phoenix. He tries to think of something to do about the old cow in his barn, but nothing comes to mind.

 

Winter comes fast and hard. One day it’s chilly, and he wears two scarves instead of one. The next, there’s a foot of snow on the ground, and Derek freaks out.

“It’s maybe 5 inches,” says Kathleen, who judges him when he comes into her shop. She’s the most deadpan member of the coven, but he thinks she still likes him. “You’ve never seen snow in your life, have you?”

Derek hasn’t, but he doesn’t tell her that. He just messes with Phoenix, who is big enough to have graduated to inside his jacket. Waya says she’s getting fat, but Derek knows she’s just big boned. He’s not fattening up his cat, no matter what anyone says.

He ends up milling around the town, looking for something to do. He knows he’s avoiding Clara, but if he doesn’t say it out loud, it’s easier to accept. He won’t get rid of her, god no, but he needs to come to terms with the facts of their relationship.

There is no touching. Derek is not allowed to touch her in any capacity, for any reason.

There is no prolonged contact. He is to fill her bowls, fix up her stable, and then leave.

He is not to look at her. Any eye contact is a threat, and will be acted upon in the most violent way possible.

He knows he is being bullied by a cow, but he doesn’t see what else to do. He doesn’t want to upset her, or cause any real stress. She make not like him - and if he’s honest, he doesn’t like her very much either - but he cares about her survival. It’s a responsibility. He won’t let her die, even if she doesn’t like him very much.

Walking down the street, it strikes him how similar his situation with Clara is to his role in Beacon Hills.

He pulls his scarf tighter, jostles Phoenix enough that she protests with pricks of claws. It’s similar, but he has at least one thing here that likes him, and doesn’t actively try and kill him.

 

Derek ruins a canvas. He isn’t thinking, and he ends up gluing fabric to the wrong part, and then when he tries to fix it he rips the rest.

He’s so mad at himself that he claws the rest of it. He slashes at the canvas, leaves bits of cloth like ribbons. The frustration sits on his chest and he’s so angry, he’s so angry for messing up. He ruined it, he fucked it up, and it’s his fault, his fault, his fault.

He goes to bed, but he doesn’t sleep. He stares out the window, where the stars are crisp. He tries to tell himself it’ll be better in the morning, but he’s never managed that delusion.

He falls asleep, between one remembrance and another, and thinks of a time he didn’t destroy, of a time he can’t recall.

 

Winter grows heavier, and the situation with Clara does not improve.

He’s worried about the barn being warm enough, so he pulls her into his garage. He puts his truck in the old shed, and has to go out every other day and turn the engine on if he doesn’t want it to give out, but it settles his mind. Clara doesn’t like it, but Clara doesn’t like anything he does, so he doesn’t take it to heart. Much.  
She’d fought with him the whole way, mooing in protest. She’d refused to let him come near her, still, eyeing him wearily every time he’d fill her food or water. If Derek got in her eyesight she’d be up and rearing, trying to headbutt and kick. It was…disheartening. Pretty fucking shitty, really, because he’d been trying so hard, been trying to do it right, but she still won’t trust him. He feeds her, gives her water, gives her space and she still thinks he’s going to eat her. It’s upsetting when a cat accepts you more than a cow that should be dependent on you.

Phoenix isn’t full grown, but she’s big. She’s taken to habits he finds adorable - she likes to run around the living room exactly five times one way, and then five times the next. She sleeps on her back when he puts her in his lap. She will climb on the island counter, but not the regular kitchen counter. She tries to attack his feet when their socked.

He realizes he’s placing a lot of emotions on this cat. He realizes this, and it only scares him a little bit. He thinks it’s a sign he’s growing. 

He hates his cat for one thing, though. Clara likes her.

Now that she’s in the garage, Phoenix feels entitled to enter the garage at all times to check on her. He’d been worried she’d kick her, or step on her, but it turns out Clara’s a fan of cats. Or she’s incredibly lonely. He tries not be bitter and say, ‘well you wouldn’t be lonely if you were nice to me’, because talking smack to a cow would just finish the tone on his life, and he’s not ready to accept it.

Phoenix doesn’t seem to notice his hurt at her betrayal. Or, she doesn’t care. She’s a sweet cat, bit she’s still a cat, and Derek knows enough about them that he accepts her nature. In point, that she doesn’t give a shit about he thinks, and he should be grateful to pick up her poop.

He’s not grateful, but he does it. Because he loves her.

 

Snow begins in full, and Derek spends whole afternoons just messing with it. He builds his first snowman. He knocks it down. He builds his second snowman, which is much better than the first one. He and Phoenix run around the yard, and he makes a tiny igloo for her. She doesn’t use it, but he thinks she liked it well enough.

Thanksgiving comes upon him, and he realizes he doesn’t know what to do. He hasn’t asked anyone in the Coven if they celebrate, because a lot of them are Native and he doesn’t want to tread on toes. Of course, when he mentions it to Waya she looks at him like he’s an idiot.

“It’s a holiday were you eat a ton a food and then complain about eating it, of course we celebrate.”

But they don’t celebrate it as a Coven. Everyone travels to other sides of families, or gathers together at their own houses. Derek doesn’t have anyone, and the Coven knows it, so by the end of the week he has plenty of offers to join various families. 

He ends up spending it with Mr. Dobson, his daughter and her wife. Partly because he likes them, partly because they were close and allowed him to bring Phoenix. He shows up with a bottle of good scotch, and Diane hugs him as soon as he enters the house.

“It’s so good to see you,” She says, pulling him into the living room as soon as his coat’s off. Phoenix runs off to explore, and ends up in the tiny green room off the side of their home. He knows they keep herbs there, but before he can do anything, Diane waves her hand. “We keep the dangerous stuff locked up, She’s fine.” She pulls him into the kitchen, and he waves at Mr. Dobson.“Dad’s been cooking all day, but we got another hour before the turkey’s done. Marina’s pulled out the pickled eggs and beats, though! Come on, try ‘em!”

Derek is happy, all though dinner. Diane and Marina are sweet, and so in love he kinda wants to hurl. Mr. Dobson is his usually quiet self, but he also smiles a lot. Phoenix even behaves herself, and doesn’t even attempt to steal cheesy potatoes. It’s a good time, he thinks, in between bites of bean salad. It feels like a family.

He doesn’t think about all the Thanksgivings spent in Beacon Hills. In a seedy motel room. In a subway station. In an empty apartment. He doesn’t think about what anyone there might be doing now. He doesn’t think about what they might feel thankful for.

That it might be he’s gone.

 

Clara fights with him, at every turn and it’s exhausting. She eats, she sleeps, but only if he’s not there. She moos if he touches her. She turned around and kicked him the stomach. She’s frightened and miserable and it’s making Derek feel like the worst being on the planet.

He’s not trying to make her upset, he’s not trying to cause her stress, but it still manages to be his fault. Derek’s tried everything, everything he can, to get close to this cow.

He sits down, one day, on the floor of the garage. He punches a hay bale, frustration making his eyes burn. She stares at him, across the room, and he wants to scream. What do I do? What do I do?

 

He’s not good at asking for help. He’s never been, and despite assertions he could call them for anything, the addition of a Coven hasn’t changed anything. He just avoids questions, and stubbornly refuses the idea that other people know things, and have the ability to fix problems.

Somehow, people have accepted it here. Maybe the coven is used to messed-up werewolves, or maybe they’re used to gigantic jackasses. Either way, they work around his reluctance with an ease he almost doesn’t notice.

Angela doesn’t say anything directly, when he visits her café. She just looks at him after placing his coffee, and rests her hand on his.

“Change will come,” she says, and Derek doesn’t pretend he doesn’t know she knows. He just pays his bill, and leaves a generous tip.

 

Derek spends his nights in the craft room. He works on his projects, and he’s proud of them. He messes up, sometimes, and he did ruin one canvas entirely, but he’s overall pretty happy.

He knows he’s not a professional. He’s not trying to get any money from them. He’s not even sure he’ll show them to anyone, once they’re finished.

But it fills something, in his chest. He feels better, with every stroke, every cut, every stitch. 

 

There is a turning point. 

It’s snowing, feet upon feet, and Derek is grateful for the wood he’d stockpiled. Phoenix spends all of her time inside with him, curled under the blankets on the couch. She only asks to go out maybe once a day, frolicking in the snow for a few minutes before romping back inside to wait on the rug, expecting Derek to wipe her down with a towel. They spend the evenings near the fire, watching PBS specials. If winter was only this, Derek would be content.

But Clara gets sick.

In the span of an afternoon, Clara goes from pacing around the pool room to slumped on the ground. Derek doesn’t know exactly when she went down, because he’d been dicking around on the internet. He’s kicking himself in the ass now, because she’s lying down in her stall, breathing heavy. Derek’s lying next to her, feels how hot her skin is, and in between the panic that rises from his ribs he has to laugh because this is the first time she’d ever let him touch her.

Like a mind-reader, she seems to realize that Derek is actually there, and attempts get away, struggling to regain her footing.

“Stop, stop,” he says, but she just struggles more. “Stop it, you need to lay down, stop it,” Clara just moos loudly, scared and disoriented, and she’s half way to collapsing again.  
Derek’s near tears, at this point, because this animal would literally harm itself to get away from him.

He steadies her, still, and without even thinking he leaches her pain. As soon as he feels the heat gather at his temple, she stops and looks at him.

His head feels stuffy, now, and his sweater and henley are far too hot. But Clara stares at him, with big doe eyes, and Derek doesn’t see fear. Just a sense of wonder.

He smiles, gritty. “I’m doing that. I’m helping you.”

They stand like that, for a few minutes, before she finally comes nearer. He places both hands on her, and she lets out a deep sigh. Derek feels like shit, of course, but he’s dealt with far worse. She looks content, and doesn’t even spook at the black circling Derek’s arms. If he’s honest, the rush of her trusting him is enough to sit down and do it for the rest of the night. And he does, until she falls asleep. Derek ends up nodding off in the hay, resting his head against her flank. Before he nods off, Phoenix makes her way to their sides, circling up between them. 

He doesn’t dream.

 

The next morning, Derek calls Waya. She’s sleepy when he answers, grumpy, but he doesn’t give her headway to talk.

“Last night Clara got sick, she was so sick but she wouldn’t let me touch her and I tried to help her but she moved away but then I leeched her pain and she stopped and now she feels better and she likes me and she lets me pet her, Waya, she lets me pet her and she’s sweet now and Waya I’m happy I’m so happy oh my god.”

It’s silent, on the other line, until Waya huffs a breath. “You are a dork,” she says, and then hangs up.

He’s insulted, a little bit, but she comes over soon with an arm full of herbs, so he forgives her. She ends up cooking some medicine for Clara, and Derek’s thrilled to see her improve near immediately. He’s less thrilled when she makes him drink some, but he won’t argue because Waya’s mean in the mornings.

Clara is in a better spirit, after the medicine, and finds it acceptable to stick her head through the kitchen door, watching them cook lunch. Derek takes so much happiness in reaching over and petting her - not only for the fact she lets him, but that her snout and ears are so soft, like petting warm velvet.

Over the next few days, Derek spends all him time around her. He brushes her coat, wipes her horns down. He sits down with her, in he hay, and she rests her head in his lap. Phoenix is a writhing ball of jealousy, and meows at him through it all. She calms after he finally heads inside, to sleep in his own bed. He does so reluctantly.

He goes to bed light, feeling like he could float away in contentment. He doesn’t dream of anything important, but he wakes with a memory of happiness.

 

Winter passes slowly, and then all to quickly. One day he contemplates the actuality of cabin fever, the next he’s celebrating Christmas with the Coven, and New Year’s soon after. On both occasions, the idea that he couldn’t get drunk was treated as myth - and, terrifyingly, as a challenge. He had fun though, lots of it. He’d participated in nearly every drinking game conceived, and they most likely created a few new ones. Notably, ‘Drink everytime Derek stumbles about the word ‘Indian’’ and ‘Drink everytime Derek complains about this werewolf film. They’d played a lot of terrible werewolf movies, and if he didn’t like them so much he’d hate them.

During the cold, dark days, he works on his art. If he’d ever had to show it, or explain it, he knows he’d have been shamed out of finishing. He’s grateful, in that sense, of the snowy months. It’s given him the opportunity to work in peace, in solitude. 

So it’s with great surprise when he finishes. Well, maybe that’s not the right word- finality, maybe. It’s with great finality that he realizes he’s done.

His canvases fill the room, all the same size but each so different. His heart pangs, sharp and tangible. But something in him smiles, breathes a heavy, final breath.

He shuts the door to the craft room. Doesn’t lock it, but doesn’t think of when he’ll open in back up. Winter still holds, so he has time to decide. 

He ends up going to bed later, and when he’d settled in his covers, the strangest thing happens.

He starts crying.

It’s quiet, at first, just tears tracking down his face, the bridge of his nose. And then they grow bigger, and his nose gets stuffed, and before long he’s-sobbing. Great big tears, soaking his pillow. His breath comes in hitches, and his fingers claw at the sheets. He sobs, over and over, loud enough that Phoenix meows at him, curls up around his head. He’s so sad, so incredibly sad, and he has no idea why it’s happening and his teeth hurt from clenching and -

He’s grieving.

He’s grieving, for his family, for his pack, for a future he never had. He’s grieving for everyone - his mother, his cousin Alex, Boyd, Paige. Laura. His fingers break through his pillow, and tiny feathers stick to his nails, his tacky face. He kicks his feet, feeling helpless and angry. He almost slams his head into his pillow, but Phoenix doesn’t move, so he’s left to shake his head back and forth. It’s pathetic, and he realizes it, but something in him is breaking and he can’t stop, he just can’t stop.

He finally shifts, blue eyes wild under his ridges, and that’s when Phoenix runs under the bed. He stumbles to the porch, yanks the door open. He falls to his knees, heedless of the dusty snow under him.

He looks up at the moon, and howls. His voice booms through the night, and it’s painful. Painful to make, painful to hear. He howls so loud a car goes off, somewhere. It’d be very embarrassing, if the tears on his face didn’t do it.

When he finishes, he sits there. The night seems in more quiet, almost scared of his display. He realizes there’s a pack still, 40 miles away, and he should be worried. He should be calling Waya, or his neighbors. He should probably be packing up and leaving.

All he wants to do, though, is to go back to sleep. To flip his pillow over and ignore the little feathers, the rips in the sheets. He wants to sleep, to forget this happened.

So he does.

 

He wakes up to see Waya and another Coven member in his kitchen. They’ve made coffee, and there’s plenty in the pot.

He heads to the coffee first, steadfastly ignoring them until half of it’s down t throat. Then he turns to face them, as dignified as he can be in his Spider-Man boxers. 

Waya raises a brow. “Wanna tell me what happened last night?”

Derek takes a sip, and it’s not a stalling tactic. “Nope.”

The coven member looks at Waya. His name is Dale, and he lives further out then the rest - say, about 40 miles out. He has close ties to the nearest pack. Derek is not excited about what this means.

Waya doesn’t speak to him. She leans over the counter, instead, to Derek. “The pack isn’t angry - we told them you were here, and they agreed to your close proximity. But they were very urgent in their visit today. They wanted to know what happened.” She holds his stare. “They wanted to know who died, for you to have howled like that.”

Derek doesn’t breath, for a moment, until he feels his gravity shift back into alignment. He looks to Dale, instead. “You can tell them it was an old wound. That I’m…fine.” He shakes his head. “They have nothing to worry about, it’s over.”

When Dale leaves, Waya grabs his arm.

“Are you ok?”

She’s serious, and Derek sighs. “No. Yes.” he scrubs his face, still feels gritty from salt tears. “I don’t know.”

She holds him for a second, lets go to stand back and look at him. It’s strange, when she smiles. “You look lighter.” She points to her eyes. “Better.”

Derek smiles back, unsure if he believes her. 

 

On the dregs of January, Angela approaches him with a problem.

“It’s just so terrible,” She sighs, filling his coffee cup. She places a bowl of water for Phoenix, who laps it up with speed. “She didn’t plan for this bunch, not during winter! We just don’t know what to do!”

Derek will not admit to not paying attention. He was invested in this article about underground greenhouses, yes, but he was paying attention to Angela. He was.

He glances at her, nodding. She gives him a look.

“You didn’t catch that, did you?”

He frowns, apologetic. “Just the first part.”

Angela rolls her eyes, but starts over. “My friend Olivia, she runs the goat farm up the road? Makes all sorts of soaps, they really are great for your skin. But anyway, she had an unexpected litter a couple ’a months ago, and she’d had a buyer all set out, but now they back out of it! She has three kids she just can’t keep, and she doesn’t want to sell ‘em for stock but she just might have to now.”

She sighs, and looks at him from under her lashes. Derek firmly pushes his cup away and stands.

“No.”

She frowns, moving in. “There’s only three of them! They’re cute too- black and white!” He tries to grab Phoenix, but she’s took taken with his abandoned coffee. Angela blocks his way, serving tray held like a shield. “They won’t get too big, they’re sweet animals! Come on, you farm has room!”

Derek crosses his arms. It took me an entire winter to get Clara to like me, and now you want me to get three? Three new animals too hate me and kick at me and make my life hell?”

Angela smiles. “Yes.”

He ends up with three wriggling, tiny girls. He names them Blossom, Bubbles, and Buttercup, and gives up on his life.

 

In a wonderful miracle beyond all belief, the goats like him. Waya says they’re too small to know any better, but Derek actually believes Clara is to thanks. The kids had come in skittish, and had taken to a familiar mammal before a cat and a werewolf. Clara had accepted them, thankfully, and not tried to step on their tiny heads.

In the span of a week, She’d taken them from ‘accept the werewolf is near you and you cannot escape’, to ‘this werewolf is kind and will pet you, and also holds power over The Food’. He’s very thankful to her, and gives her fresh apples in return- she continues to be a good cow, and doesn’t even moo in the middle of the night.

The goats are rambunctious. Derek can’t think of another word to use beyond that. They felt cramped in the garage, and Derek thought them small enough to manage inside the house. This was a Mistake, as he had fond out, because tiny goats will take the invitation and run with it. Literally.

Phoenix hides on the back of the couch as the goats tear through the house. Derek is nearly mowed down by their sprints, the tiny clacker of hooves too fast to keep up with. They’ll run for sessions, and then collapse by his feet, beginning for attention and bits of carrots. Then they’re off again, running their circuit. They are adorable, but terrifying. Derek loves them, suddenly and fiercely.

 

March comes quickly, and the spring sun starts to melt away the winter, bit by bit. The ground becomes a cold, soggy mush, but the sun beams brighter. Hotter. Derek starts leaving the windows open, uses less blankets. Phoenix starts shedding, and Derek seriously considers shaving her.

He lets Clara and the bunch out permanently, and they’re delighted to have the run of the farm. The goats tumble their way from one corner to the next, while Clara’s content to graze on.  
Life is good. Life is honest, and fair right now. He’s never gotten to really say that, before now, but he feels it. His life is on track. There is nothing wrong in it.

He doesn’t even feel like he’s going to jinx it, because he honestly doesn’t think that anything’s going to go wrong. He has seen the Coven defend their land, and he knows they’re safe. He’s comfortable with the Gordon pack, and they’re comfortable with him. Phoenix is healthy, and so is Clara. Blossom, Bubbles and Buttercup all look in tip-top shape. And if any of them got sick, he could take care of them. Or go to a vet. Or the coven.

He has options, now. He has friends. He has a life.

It’s this train of thought, this newfound peace in the world, that leads him to ask Waya for help cleaning his house out. She asks what the hell he could’ve accumulated in the span of two seasons, but he really wants to do it. He wants to throw out the old, really bring Spring in with resolve. He also wants to paint the walls, and Waya sighs and tells him to pick colors she won’t hate.

So they go through his house, and they start the cleansing. That’s what Waya calls it, mockingly, but Derek is steadfast. He may not have even lived here a year, but he’s serious about this. He wants spring to be a fresh start, wants to get rid off the old. He understands it’s a kind of cliché, but it doesn’t matter. He needs this.

It is only slightly embarrassing when they come out with one trash bag. Most of it filled with scraps from his projects.

Waya is unamused. Partly because this is waste of time, and partly because he won’t let her see his canvases. “It’s a bag full of nothing, here, sir. Wanna try again?”

He really doesn’t have anything. He’s checked every room, they’d gone through ever-

“Oh!” He exclaims, and rushes to his bedroom. Waya follows more sedately.

He looks in his closet, under his bed- there! He reaches under, twice, pulling out two different suitcases. One looks empty, the other not much more.

“I grabbed all my clothes out,” He says, reaching into one and finding it truly empty. “But I know I never bothered with the rest. Maybe there’s some stuff I can throw away!”

“You seem really excited to waste things,” Waya mutters, but Derek ignores her because,

His phone.

He’d found his old phone.

It was dead, of course, he hadn’t turned it on in months. Oh.

He finds the charger, gets it set up. Waya is quiet, watching the light turn on, the screen come to life.

He doesn’t know what to expect. In honesty, the discovery makes him feel numb. He remembers the hope he’d placed in this phone. He remembers what it felt like, leaving. How lonely it’d been.

He doesn’t know what to expect, watching the little screen light up. Doesn’t even know what he wants.

There is a span of nothing- only the quiet hum of the ceiling fan, and their soft breathing.

And then, there is chaos.

His phone shakes, by the flood of notifications. His alarm dings repeatedly, unable to finish one before the next begins. His screen is flooded by the alerts- missed call, message, voicemail. It doesn’t stop. It doesn’t end.

He doesn’t stop to think- doesn’t pause to check when these were sent, or why. He doesn’t even let the notifications finish, or explain to Waya what’s happening.

He just swallows his fear, and presses Call.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unexpected visitors, and Derek still cannot handle feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> why did this take so long. why. WHY.
> 
> dedicated to everyone who was kind enough to leave their impressions of this story, I am so thankful you enjoyed the first part. I hope you enjoy this as well!

The phone rings once, twice, and Derek holds his breath.

He gets nothing but static. Confused, he checks the phone-sees it has no bars at all. Waya clears her throat, gestures aimlessly around. “Mountains, Derek. We’re in the mountains.”

Yeah, that- yeah. Of course. That would make sense.

It is very anticlimactic, getting into his truck with Waya. It’ll be a twenty minute drive to McDonalds, which is sort of the marker for where cell reception starts kicking in. The whole way down, the phone is like a hot weight on his lap. He’s continually aware of the timer that’s ticking, of how soon he’s going to have to answer his past- figuratively, and literally, and that in itself is an irony, and Derek is quickly getting sick of the ‘ees’ that are piling up.

They end up in the back of the parking lot, Derek killing the engine with a finality he isn’t comfortable with. Waya watches him, but she does that a lot, so her gaze isn’t invasive as it is routine. Right now, it’s almost a comfort.

He presses call before he can change his mind. This time, the dial tone is clear, and the feeling of snakes in his stomach is stronger. He wants to shift. He wants to howl.

Stiles picks up so fast, Derek’s mind nearly goes blank with what to say. “Derek?”

Everything is suddenly real, and it‘s terrifying, and he really wants to run away. Derek feels like he’s swallowing sand. “Stiles. What’s wrong?”

There’s a pause, where only a static-y silence is heard, and then Stiles is sputtering, furious. “What’s- What’s wrong what’s- Derek where are you? What happened?! You’ve been gone for months, we’ve been looking for months, you left without saying- where are you!?”

Derek’s confused. “I said I was- Stiles, why are you calling, is something wrong? Why were you looking for me?”

“Because you left, maybe?!” Stiles squawks. “You disappeared with a stupid note and left everything here and we’d thought you were in trouble! We were waiting for a phone call, an email, something, because we thought you had enough sense to check in but you didn’t so we tried to find you and here you are, apparently perfectly ok!”

He’s nearly screaming, by the end, and Derek-

He feels a clench, in his stomach, cold and violent, and he’s so angry he wants to rip his fingers through flesh.

“I told you,” He whispers, seething rage. “I told you I was leaving, do you remember that?”

Stiles doesn’t back down- He never does. “You said you were leaving, not leaving! You didn’t say that! You didn’t say you were never coming back! We show up on a regular Sunday to return a-“

Derek sees red. “I left on a Wednesday.”

That shuts Stiles up. In another time he’d be thrilled for it too have worked. Now, He just wants to throw his phone against a wall. It is one thing to believe people didn’t care about you. It is another entirely to find out it’s true.

There’s a long, strained silence. One that feels sharp and fragile at the same time.

“Derek,” Stiles starts, anxious, but Derek doesn’t allow it.

“Fuck you,” He spits, and He can feel Stiles flinch even through the phone. “Fuck you all, fuck Beacon Hills, fuck everything.” He clenches the phone. “Don’t call me again,” He grounds out, and then hangs up. Throws the phone down, and he expects to hear it crash against the window, or the floor. Instead, the sharp pinch of magic plucks the phone before any damage, Waya grabbing it mid air.

He can feel her stare, feel her questions and concern before she can begin to voice them. But he can’t handle it, not now. Not when he feels close to biting a head off, maybe for real, at this point.

He gets out, quickly, pretty much throws himself into the parking lot. He needs to run, needs to get away. He’s out to the woods in seconds, and doesn’t return till the sun is far past setting.

 

When he gets back, Waya’s gone. The truck is, too, but he knows she drove it back. It’s reassuring, past the embarrassment he feels over it. He’s grateful for her thoughtfulness. And also for the chance to put off talking.

When he gets back to the house, his truck is indeed parked, and Waya is gone. He sighs, and gets to work taking care of everything he’d neglected to go run off like a baby. Phoenix is clingy, the rest of the night, and he figures she can tell he’s had a rough day. Clara is sweet, almost unusually so, and even the goats are on their best behavior. He hopes it’s their attempts to make him feel better, and not out of fear that he’s so angry he’ll eat them.

By 9’o clock, he’s exhausted. Emotional exchanges tend to do that- at least, that’s what he’s found. He feels like an old man, turning in so early, but on the other hand it’s near blissful to fall into bed.

He feels guilty, for yelling like that. For being a child. He feels guilty, and it’s so strange, to realize he’d stopped feeling it. That in the time he’d been here, on this mountain, he’d stopped blaming himself for everything.

It’s almost enough to make him call Waya, ask for the phone back. To apologize to Stiles, to everyone.

Almost.

 

He has a nightmare, that night, of drowning in a pool. It’s the same one, he realizes, that he’d almost drowned in with Stiles. The one in the school, where he’d used to have practice. Where he’d met Kate.

Stiles isn’t there holding him up. No one’s there, not even the Kanima. It’s just Derek, slowly sinking into the water, lungs and legs burning under weights he can’t see. He sinks to the bottom, feels the chlorine burn his eyes and he looks up to the refracted florescent lights. There is no one coming. He is alone.

Derek wakes with a gasp, and Phoenix mewls in concern. He spends the rest of the night too afraid to sleep, watches reality TV on his laptop until the suns brings sharp spikes of light through his bedroom window. The dawn feels false, somehow, and Derek is left with lingering fear well into the afternoon.

 

He spends the day in a mild sort of panic, because for some reason that dream fucked him up. Maybe it was due to the close detail it shared with the actual events, or that it happened because of a blast from his past, or maybe that it had felt so real Derek had wanted to vomit up imaginary water for a few good minutes. He goes around his chores, takes care of the animals like every other day, but the lingering fear makes his hands feel too big, makes him feel out of place and uncomfortable.

In complete contrast to the night before, he attempts to stay up as long as possible. By four am, Phoenix is complaining, trying to get him to lie down so she herself can sleep. He slips into the quilts with apprehension, turns off the lights and watches steady moonbeams cast shadows around the room. Phoenix is asleep quickly, curled on his stomach, but Derek doesn’t end up sleeping at all. The tightness in his gut won’t dissipate, and he’s left with only his thoughts.

The sun comes up, just a sudden and gritty as the day before, and he decides something must be done.

 

He goes into town, later, still on edge. He doesn’t bring Phoenix with him, this time, not because he doesn’t want her (he does, he wants her comfort more than anything, right now), but because he’s been on enough edge that it’s effecting her. She’d been agitated and winey, and he knows it’s because he’s been a huge mess after the nightmare.

He’d used to have nightmares every night. It was not an exaggeration, but a fact- ever since the fire, he’d been having terrible dreams. And he’d been used to them, in so much as you can get used to soul crushing terror- and then he’d moved to Maggie Valley and they’d all but stopped. So he’s not sure if he’s healed, or if he’d become weak in his time here. He’s uncomfortable thinking about it.

He goes to Waya’s shop, stepping through the door to hear the gentle wind chimes. She’s stocking shelves, her ladder moving swiftly down the line as she places jars and pouches.

Spooky greats him with a mewl and a head rub, and he smiles. He reaches down to pet his head. “Waya, it’s Derek.”

Waya waves her hand, busy but acknowledging him. “I know, I could feel it. Wait a sec.” She continues stocking, only once and a while using a burst of magic to fly an item across the store. It neatly stocks itself every time, and Derek is entranced by the ease she does it.

With a jump, she’s off the ladder, and turns to face him. In her black dress and stockings, she’s the exact image he’d have of a modern witch.

“Out with it, Hale.” She says, raising a brow.

Derek smiles, feeling a little better already. “You look like a witch.”

She frowns, glancing down at her attire. She looks back at him, brow still raised. “You look like a werewolf.” He almost laughs, before he realizes he’d put on dark jeans and a flannel, plaid shirt. He rubs a hand on his face, cautiously, and feels the longer than usual stubble.

He winces. She huffs a good natured, amused sigh. “What’d you want?”  
He gestures aimlessly, shrugging his shoulders as she walks back to the counter. Spooky follows her with his tail raised high. “I uh, don’t really know.” He walks toward one of the leather seats she has, a little waiting area set up near her counter. “I think, maybe a tea? Or a potion?”

“For what?” She asks, and Derek feels his face grow hot. It’s embarrassing, to admit his weakness to her. It’s the first time he’ll have done it, here, and it already leaves him with a sour taste.

But he trusts her, and more than that, he genuinely likes her, and if there’s one person who can help him get over this hurdle, it’s a witch with more magic prowess than many twice her age.

So he takes a breath, and spills. “I had a nightmare, and it disturbed me. I’d like something to keep it, and others, from happening again.”

She looks at him, and he knows she’s thinking about the phone call. She’s wondering if it has anything to with it and there’s a lump in his throat at the thought of her asking, of her thinking he’s such a fucking mess he’d be sick over one brush from his past.

Waya speaks slowly, as if she was treading softly. “Sometimes,” she starts, “it’s better to face your fears, than rely on a crutch.” She looks at him, face sort of weird, really, until she nods to herself. “Yes. You have to face problems, not hide from them.”

Derek leaves without a tea or potion, but he does have a prescription.

 

One of the coven has a swimming hole on their property. It’s used primarily in summer as a barbecue and picnic spot, but it’s been the scene of a few rituals, he’s told. It’s very lovely, with tall trees and still water reflecting like a mirror, but it’s March and it’s freezing cold.

Mark tells him this, three times, as they walk to the shore, but Derek assures him he’ll be fine, that it won’t be a problem. Phoenix sits in his arms, slightly intimidated by the new surroundings.

They get the hole and Derek strips into his trunks, leaving Phoenix to mill around the edge. Mark gives him a look, and gestures to the water. “Are you sure? Really sure?”

Derek nods, stretching his arms and legs. “I’m sure.”

“Is this a werewolf thing?” He asks, and Derek smiles.

“Nope. A Derek thing.”

He doesn’t hesitate at the water’s edge, knowing that it’ll be colder in the long run if he steps or walks in. Instead, he grabs a swing rope tied to one of the trees, and takes a running start. There’s a moment where time stills, as he lets go of the rope and hovers above the placid water. Then, with a great splash, he’s entirely submerged.

It is freezing. It’s mountain water, melted snow, and there’s no other feeling but ‘cold’. He forces himself to swim underwater, pushing through his almost panicked desire of warmth, and then floats back up.

When his head breaks surface, it’s with a gasp. He looks around, seeing Mark occupied with his phone, and Phoenix wavers between getting close to the water’s edge and running far away.

The water is unbearable, and for a few more minutes he has to force himself to keep swimming. In time, however, his body adjusts, and the water feels warmer than the air around him. It’s not life threating, he knows, but he thinks it’s still pretty helpful that he’s not human. 

He swims around, actively pushing himself to drop down into the water and stay at the bottom. He forces himself to hold his breath and butterflies across the hole, and he makes himself remember that he’s in complete control. That his body won’t fail him right now, that’s he has nothing to fear, that in the worst case scenario Mark is going to use his magic to drag him out of the water.

By the time an hour has passed, he doesn’t feel like the water’s a threat. He steps out feeling fresh, and immediately starts to shiver.

“You’re lucky I thought ahead,” Mark says, throwing him two huge towels. Derek wraps them around gratefully, already feeling better. Phoenix laps at the fresh water on his legs, course tongue pulling his leg hair.

They walk back, after he’s dressed, and Derek feels 200% better. He even stops through McDonalds and gets a shake as a reward.

He feels like he’s on top of the world, for the next week, because he’d solved his problem like an adult. There is nothing that could go wrong, and he’s pretty confident it’s true. He attends a spring picnic, watches movies, and helps Angela move from her apartment to her boyfriend’s house. There are no battles, no threats to his person or his home. It is the greatest sort of peace he can wish for.

And then he gets a call from Waya to come down to the shop, please, and everything goes to shit.

 

The sky is exceptionally blue that morning. With only a slight chill from the mountain peaks, Derek thinks it’s very near a perfect day. He spends the daybreak with the barnyard, letting the kids butt at his legs when he runs around the fence. Bubbles, who has two big white spots on her hind, likes to rear up on her back legs and push him, in an effort to knock Derek down. He should probably break her of the habit, but it’s adorable.

He gives Clara free run of the property, and she walks up and down the small stream like a lady on her stroll. She likes to walk near the fence on the eastern side, gossiping with the old mare and donkey from the land next door. He assumes its gossip, as every other old lady he’s met on this mountain seems to live off it.

It’s almost lunch when Waya calls the house. He misses the first call, being too slow back from the stable area, and she actually calls back immediately, meaning it’s important.

“Hello?” He answers, trying to take his shoe off with his other foot. Phoenix helps by attacking his laces.

“Hey,” She says, and he knows immediately something’s wrong. “I need you down here when you can spare the time.”

He’s on edge. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” She says, too measured to be true. “I just need you down here. Preferably sooner than later.”

He’s immediately putting his shoe on again. “I’ll be there in 15.”

“Derek stop, don’t rush.”

“I’ll skip the truck, give me 5.”

“Derek Hale stop,” She laughs it out, and he’s calmed a bit. “Take the car, please. Don’t speed, don’t break any traffic laws. Just get here in a nice and timely manner.” She breathes deeply, and he finds himself doing the same. “I’ll see you when I see you,” She says, and then hangs up.

“Waya-“ He starts, but it’s too late. He hangs up as well, slightly put off and foreboding and he can’t figure out why. Phoenix looks up at him with large eyes, pawing at his leg.

He ends up making a quick lunch of tuna fish sandwich (with a good portion given to a cuddly, demanding cat). He’s out the door in thirty, Phoenix held in his arms. There’s a feeling in his gut that says something’s going to happen- he hopes he doesn’t get stabbed again.

 

The drive to town is just as uneventful as it usually is. The dog on Marple Lane chases after his truck for a good ten seconds. The house with the teapot mailbox still has a toilet as a flower planter. The wood bridge has the same broken sign as it always does.

He parks at the Green Onion like he always does- Angela will claim it’s her car to anyone who’ll ask- and walks to the Spice Cabinet. He stops by the art gallery to let Phoenix be pet by Miss Galany, who always delights in seeing him, and then he’s right in front of the shop’s door.

Spooky doesn’t greet him when he walks in, nowhere to be seen. The bells chime, the same tinny melody as always, but he doesn’t see Waya behind the counter, or stocking, or hear her cursing in the store room.

What he does sees is Stiles, suitcase by his feet, hands wringing in nervous terror, standing in front of him. He’s gained muscle, stretching his jacket around the shoulders. His eyes are the same honey gold he remembers. He has a new scar, right under his bottom lip, and he smells exactly like he used to; like sweet peppers and dusty sunshine.

Derek turns on his heel, straight out the door.

“Derek Hale!” Waya yells from somewhere in the right- perhaps from hiding under her sales counter. “Get back here now and deal with your emotional baggage!”

He walks briskly down the street, Phoenix mewling under his arm. There is no other thought through his head besides ‘go, now, go go go’.

“Derek!” She yells again, apparently on the stoop of her shop by how clear it is. He ignores her, walking ever so faster.

“Derek Hale.” She speaks this time, and it’s with a power that is terrifying and wrathful. He feels it, like a string pulled tight in his body. He needs to turn around, walk back. Phoenix is puffed out, claws slightly digging into his arm, and Derek grits his teeth

He ignores the call, ignore everything, instead pushing his way to the other end of the street. There is nothing in his mind except anger, pure and bright.

 

He goes home with the full intention of ignoring every single person that exists. He folds himself on the couch with three blankets and queues his Netflix to play American Pickers nonstop.

There’s a squeak from the front door, and the entire coven lets themselves into his house.

“Derek-!” Waya starts, the first in a pack of people trying to cram themselves into his entry way. There are a good ten people attempting to enter the door at the same time.

Derek stands up and walks to the kitchen, exiting via the garage, resolutely ignoring everything. “No.”

Waya all but runs to him, tries to reach out and grab him but he’s faster then she’ll ever be. He actually makes it down the wooden steps into the garage, aims to escape through the open door.

Angela stands to block him, hands on her hips. Spooky sits next to her, a presence that is anything but small.

Derek groans, slapping his hands on his face. In this moment, he has never been so frustrated by good intentions- misplaced, unneeded, good intentions. The coven closes in on him, nearly making a circle, and it’d be a bit frightening if he wasn’t so pissed. Waya is the head of the operation, like always, her proud chin held high as she tries to stare him down.

“Get out of my house,” He mumbles, self-conscious with the good chunk of people cornering him in. It feels like a school yard fight.

“We need to talk,” Waya says, conviction strong in her voice. Spooky has migrated towards her at some point, as if to confirm her place as the most powerful being in the vicinity.

Derek doesn’t want to do this here, but he doesn’t want to do this period, and since he’s stuck he doesn’t get a choice. “Is that why you brought the entire coven with you?” The members alternate between being embarrassed and outright not giving a shit. He appreciates both sides’ principle, at least.

“It’s not even half,” Waya says, waving her hand. “And wouldn’t have brought them if I didn’t know you’d try to run, asshole.”

Derek scowls, crossing his arms. “I don’t want to talk to you.”

“Well too bad!” Waya chides. “You don’t want to talk to Stiles,” she starts, and Derek doesn’t flinch at his name, he doesn’t, “So you either talk to all of us, here, right now, or you talk to me.” She waits for him to say something, eyeing him hard. “This is your choice.”

Derek still wants to rip something. “I don’t remember joining your coven,” he says, darkly.

Waya actually smiles at that. “Yes you do.”

Her words, simple, deflate him. Yeah, he does. He’s still angry, still ready to yell at her, but it’s less blood-worthy and more frustrating. “Ok. Where?”

The coven visibly relaxes around him, and Waya rolls her sleeves up. “We’re gonna pick some berries.”

 

He thinks, at first, it’s some kind of mountain metaphor, but they reach a huge patch of raspberry bushes and he’s thrown for a loop.

“We’re actually picking berries.” He states more than asks. Waya doesn’t bother to waste time, instead shoving a wicket basket into his arms. Derek frowns, but gets on his knees, prepared to survey the bush at the request of a horrible witch. The tiny red berries sit nestled in their thickets, and Derek can already tell his hands will be pricked repeatedly. He sighs, and starts to carefully pull the tiny fruit off their pits.

“I thought were going to talk.”

Waya focuses on the bush, not bothering to look at him. “Yup. Once you start pickin’, you can talk.”

He goes at it, for a few minutes. The repetitive picking and placing are calming, in a way, with the sun shining speckled through the trees above, and the chirping birds all around. He glances at Waya, who is clipping leaves from the bush, placing them carefully into her own basket.

“I thought we were picking berries,” He snarks, and again, she doesn’t look at him.

“You’re picking berries, I’m picking leaves, shut up and pick.”  
He doesn’t say anything to her, after that, instead focusing on the apparently important task of gathering berries. It takes a while, but the bush is huge, full of plump red circles. He plops a couple in his mouth, pleased with the sweet burst of juice he gets. 

When his basket reaches half full, he looks at Waya. “Why did you call him?”

He’s still mad, and she knows it, she has too. She doesn’t say anything for a second, pausing her harvesting long enough that he knows she’s heard him. The sun catches on her raven hair, and he suddenly misses Laura, fiercely and without end. She answers, pushing her braid out of the way. “Because you need to talk to him.”

“I don’t need to talk to anyone,” He says, angry, and he pricks his palm against a particularly vicious thorn. The pain makes him angrier. “I don’t want to talk to anyone. You had no right to call-“

“The berries,” Waya prods, and Derek realizes he’s begun to pick them too hard, and squished a couple beyond necessary. He snaps his mouth closed, still pissed, but focuses on being gentler in the harvest.

He eats the ones he’s ruined, and they’re still delicious. His fingers turn a slight red, juice staining them. “I can’t believe you used my phone like this.”

“You’re right,” Waya says, simple and clean. Derek is almost shocked by the easy admission, nearly rips an entire stalk off the bush. “What I did was out of line. I went behind your back, and I’m sorry.” She picks a couple of berries herself, plops them in her mouth. “But I did it for your sake.”

Derek frowns. “Because you think you know what’s best for me.”

Waya stands up, and looks at him with the sort of fierceness he remembers his mother having, some deep emotion that he doesn’t dare put a name on. “Because you’re my friend, and I love you.”

He sucks in a breath, closing his eyes. There are a number of raspberries ruined in his hand, and the sharp spikes of pain from his other one grasping a branch. His eyes are warm, and suddenly his chest is tight. He feels more than hears her come over to his side, and her tiny hands are so gentle when they take his.

“You’re my friend,” She repeats, much softer this time, but threaded with a fiery anger. “I love you. I want you to be happy. I want you to feel good about yourself. And this?” She says, and he knows she’s referring to his past. To Beacon Hills. “This is killing you. You have to face it. You have to talk to Stiles.” She moves an arm to wrap around his shoulders, and Derek all but falls into her.

There’s a quiet moment, where the sun is just a tad too warm and the birds are in tune with each other, and Derek feels his heart loosen just enough to breath. “I’m really mad at you.” He says, and he feels Waya shrugs.

“Friends have to fight once in a while, and we haven’t had a real one yet. This’ll be a good thing, I promise.” Derek snorts, but he doesn’t really reply. Waya’s too tiny to really hold him, but it still feels nice. He forgives her for this moment at least.

“You gotta talk to him,” She whispers after a few good minutes, and Derek tenses up. “I won’t try and force you, but please think about it.”

Derek thinks about it. “How long is he in town?”

“A week and a half,” She answers, and Derek nods into her shoulders. It’s a week and a half till he leaves, so Derek has a pretty good chance of avoiding him for the entirety. All he has to do is hole up in is house, and not leave for threat of death.

He is very wrong.

 

The next morning Derek wakes up in his usual fashion. He starts the coffee, does some sit-ups on the living room floor, and then pushups when Phoenix wakes up long enough to sit on his back. She’s not a counter weight so much as a comforting presence, and her recent inclination to be part of his morning exercise is heartwarming.

His routine has been pretty steady since he’d arrived, and has been mostly unbroken. In fact, the early hour means he’s rarely disturbed- maybe one or two times by an urgent coven member, and the one time a robin flew into his window. The coven members had needed help with fairy circles, which is more about pomp and circumstance than actual muscle, and the bird had been injured but alive enough for him to heal it, so it really hasn’t been that terrible. He’s lived a pretty peaceful, uninterrupted in his mountain patch, so the occasional interruption doesn’t bother that much.

Still, when the doorbell rings it’s a surprise. The coven members usually yell their arrival, and it’s not even eight yet, so He doesn’t think his neighbor is looking for her coon dog yet.

When he gets closer to the door, he realizes that the fast past thumping heartbeat is one he recognizes- one he’d only heard recently.

He doesn’t open the door, but he does slam his fist against it. It is incredibly satisfying to smell the burst of fear through the door, and hear the sharp uptick in he already rapid heartbeat. It doesn’t stop him from nearly growing, “Stiles, go away.”

Stiles, as always, doesn’t listen. “Derek, come on and talk to me!” His voice is muffled through the door, and Derek snorts.

“No.” He hears Stiles moves sharply to the right, and Derek lunges to grab hold of the blinds on his window. The snap shut, and he hears Stiles curse.

“Damn it, Derek!” He moves towards the next window, but Derek beats him to it, snapping the blinds shut just as fast. He quickly runs the whole room, and Stiles has no hope of catching him through the window. Very quickly, Derek makes it through the whole house, swiping curtains close and snapping windows shut. Phoenix watches him, head moving back and forth between his quick movements. He can hear Stiles pace on the front porch, weighing his options. Derek would laugh some other time, but instead he decides he’s done playing games. He grabs a jacket, and slips his boots on. Stepping onto his upstairs balcony, he locks the door behind him. He hears Stiles slam himself into the front door, and the familiarity of it makes him sigh.

Derek doesn’t pause; he jumps off the veranda, landing on his feet with grace. He walks calmly to the back of the house, up the tiny hill where the grapes are growing on their lattices to see if- yup, Stiles’ rented Focus is blocking his truck in. Rolling his eyes, Derek makes his way to the property next door- the wire fence isn’t electrified, and it’s more to keep Archie the coon-hound inside than to keep anything out.

He walks up his neighbor’s hill, and Archie meets him halfway, all wagging tail and yipping bark. Derek’s rubs his floppy ears, runs with him up to the front door.

Ms. Avett opens her door with a smile, letting Archie into the house. She’s already dressed for a day in her garden, apron dirty from years of dedication and love. “Derek! Didn’t expect you till Saturday. Did Archie get out again?”

Derek smiles. “No, he’s fine. He escorted me up your road, like a gentleman. I actually came to ask if I could borrow your truck- mine frizzed out, and I need to run some errands today.”

Ms. Avett shakes her head with a grin, already reaching over to her tray and grabbing her keys. “Alright, you can have it all day but I expect it to be filled when you get it back. And no donuts in parking lots, young man!” She laughs at her own joke, and Derek’s unamused. Still, he thanks her, and within minutes he’s seated in her old truck, a tiny crocheted angel watching over him from the consol.

He drives by his house slowly, and sees Stiles trying (and failing) to climb up his walls and onto the balcony. Derek shakes his head, and drives off, intent on seeing a movie and waiting this nonsense out. He gets a decent breakfast at the Egg ‘n You Dinner, walks around the antique shops until his four ‘o’clock showing.

Before he goes to the downtown cinema, he’s gracious enough to walk past Waya’s shop. She looks up at him and sighs, and it’s sweetly satisfying that she knows exactly why he’s here and not home, and that it bothers her.

The movie is decent, in the end, but it’s only expected.

 

He comes home around seven at night, and he sees Stiles’ has left. He rushes to feed his animals, who are very far from starving but still miffed that they had to wait for food. Within the hour they’re all happy enough, and Derek then decides it’s a great time to brush them all. After that, he thinks the goats need bathes, to he gets the soap and tub ready and spends a good chunk of time trying to keep a goat in the water at all times. Then he’s checking their stables, and putting new hay down, and it’s only after he realizes it’s nearing midnight that he is indeed stressing that Stiles is here. In a motel room, maybe, or staying with a coven member. Maybe he’s sleeping in his rented car, his college budget not allowing him the security of four walls.

He goes to bed with a heavy chest, and tries not to think of where Stiles is right now.

 

The following morning, he knows Stiles will try again. So Derek wakes up even early, before the sun even has a chance to shine over the misty mountain tops. Phoenix is completely scandalized at this, and berates him the entire time he feeds the barn. Her whiney mewls make him laugh, but he gives her a few treats to make up for the early morning.

By the time it’s six, he’s let the goats into the paddock, and Clara is munching on the grass near the fence. He’s sure they’ll be fine for the day, so he puts Phoenix in her carry bag (which is a very recent development, as she’d gotten too big to put in his jacket) and gets into his truck. He’ll spend the day with Mr. Dobson, who is one of the few people he knows who isn’t a busybody. He promised a day fishing near the Chimney Rocks, and Derek is all for it.

He’s on the road with no real problems. Waya’s spelled his truck to only play The Best of Queen, but joke’s on her- he’d finally read Good Omens and loved it. In the chill of the quiet morning, ‘Lover Boy’ sounds a bit too strong, but he’ll be damned before he gives Waya the satisfaction of winning.

He has the volume low, is the point, and that allows him to hear the unsteady brakes of a Ford Focus, trying to tail him discreetly a turn or so behind.

Derek glances at his dash- a full tank, oil good. Stiles is an idiot if he thinks he can navigate these mountains in one gear. If he wants to tail Derek, he’s gonna have to do it on his terms.

He continues down the winding road to the bottom of the mountain, turns left instead of right. It’ll take him down a row of woodcrafter shops and sod farms, and then a turn into the mountains again. If Derek is right- and considering the noise he can hear, he probably is- Stiles has no idea how to drive in the mountains. He’s gonna destroy his car.

And, of course, Derek is right. Stiles tries to catch up, pushing his rental too fast uphill, not knowing how to work his little car in the rough terrain. He can hear Stiles’ engine overheat from his own car, and he checks his mirror to just barely see him pull over to the shoulder. Derek shakes his head. It’s pathetic. He finds the next shoulder and quickly turns around.

As he gets closer, he sees Stiles with the hood open, staring at the hot smoke coming through. He drives slowly, and Stiles notices- sputters for a few seconds, and then curses him violently. Derek just gives him a look, and descends the mountain.

 

In the chimneys there is an overwhelming sense of calm. The rivers run quickly, but it isn’t the white rush of the other, larger ones. Just a steady current, clear and sparkling in the mid-morning sun.

Derek sits with Mr. Dobson on a smooth rock, a huge one that straddles itself over a calm pool in the river, Phoenix dozing between them, enjoying the rock’s heating surface. They sit with his fishing poles, watching the yellow perch dart between river rocks- they don’t want the bait, but patience is the key to fishing. They’ll come when they come. And if they don’t, Mr. Dobson knows a trout pond a couple miles away. They’d bring back fish no matter what.

It is, like most of their interactions, a quiet one. Mr. Dobson doesn’t say anything to him- never really does. It’s like age had given him a pass to have to comment on anything. He can simply exist in the world, and it can exist around him. He is the steadiest person Derek has ever met- strong in spirit, he father would have said. Strong in way only experience brings.

So he doesn’t say anything, besides a few offhand recommendations for fishing, and a compliment to his cat for behaving so well. And that is fine.

The minutes drag on, and the river’s noise is slightly distracting. Derek glances at Mr. Dobson- stone still, staring at the pool. Right.

A few more minutes pass. No fish bite, and Derek starts to feel uncomfortable. Mr. Dobson doesn’t say a word.

A moment later, Derek picks up the sound of flapping. They both look up, and a red-tail hawk darts across the river, grabbing a fish in a talon. It swoops off just as fast, and Mr. Dobson gives a low whistle. “Good luck, that is. You got something you need luck with, Derek?”

Derek nearly snaps his pole. “You too?!” He looks desperately at the man, who gives nothing away. He just looks at Derek with the same usual expression of serene knowledge.

“’Fraid I don’t know what you’re on about, son.”

Derek frowns, and points and accusatory finger. “Really? You just happen to invite me for fishing, just happen to want to spend time when I’m trying to avoid Stiles? So you can just slip in some spiel about meeting with him, or something? Who told you to- It was Waya, wasn’t it.” Derek waits for an answer, but Mr. Dobson just looks at him, clearly amused.

“Son, I had no intention of bringin’ him up. You did that all by yourself.”

Derek’s quick to speak, but finds his mouth hanging open instead, silent. He did bring it up. He brought it up even when he was trying to completely not think about it. He shuts his mouth in embarrassment, moves to look back at the fish.

It’s a moment, maybe two, before Mr. Dobson sighs. “Derek.” Derek actually looks at him, and whatever he sees, he smiles at. “You do need to talk to him.”

They catch no fish. On the way back, Derek picks up two huge trout, and grills them on his porch. Phoenix eats is with joy, and loves him up for the rest of the night.

Derek goes to sleep with a sense of foreboding sadness, and he doesn’t know why.

 

Waya yells at him the next morning.

“I cannot believe you left the poor boy on the mountain, you dumb baby!”

“I am not a baby,” Derek whispers into the phone, slightly put out that she’s so mad on Stiles’ behalf. He continues to chop his raspberries, intending to make a pie.

“You’re right, babies I can forgive, babies still have to learn. You absolutely know better, you asshole!” She sounds super mad, actually, and Derek starts to feel bad. He looks at his berries- he could probably make two pies, if he cheats and puts some jam into them.

“Look, I’m sorry. But I don’t want to talk to him.” The pie is looking pretty good, actually. He even has enough dough left over to make a fancy design- maybe some leaves? Flowers?

“Well, it’s gonna be hard not to talk to him during the full moon, won’t it?”

Derek stops everything. “What?”

“He’s invited,” Waya continues, and that is the absolute right thing to say to make Derek loose his shit.  
“No,” He pretty much shouts. “No no no. You can’t invite-“

“I can’t what, Derek?” She speaks over him, just as pissed. “I can’t invite someone to a ceremony? I, head of this coven, cannot invite someone to our event?”

He huffs an annoyed breath, and begins to pace around the kitchen. “You’re just inviting him so I have to talk to him!”

“Not everything is about you! Maybe, since you’ve ditched him for four days now, I’ve gotten to know him! Maybe, since he’s sleeping on my couch, we’ve had some great conversation! Maybe, Derek, I found out he has some magic in him, and I think he could benefit from time with us!”

He’s so mad he actually stomps his foot. “Maybe that’s all a bonus, and you really just want me to talk to him!”

“Maybe it is, Derek!” And her voice is hard, unforgiving. “But I decided it, so now you either deal with it, or leave!”

There’s a drawn out pause, where both of them just breathe angrily into the receivers. Derek won’t challenge her authority, not over this, and she knows it. But he’s so angry he doesn’t even know to do. There’s a writhing mass of heat in his chest, and it makes him tense. He feels his words spring up like bile in his throat.

“You’re not getting a pie,” he yells into the phone, quickly pressing END and slamming it back into the charger. He stands there for a second, just seething, and then he goes back to the pies with a fury. He shoves them in the oven viciously, almost breaking the handles and buttons on the old thing. Then he puts the timer on and stomps outside to the paddock.

The nice thing about having three rambunctious goats is that they roughhouse. Actually, that is usually the worst thing about having them, but right now Derek is so thankful. He ends up running with them in circles around the gate, then bracing himself for their head-butting in turns. Bubbles is the largest of her sisters, and she knows it- she isn’t afraid to go at Derek with all her power, and he’s grateful for it now. He can’t use most of his strength, wouldn’t really dream of it, but even this is helping.

Eventually the goats tire, so Derek vaults over the fence and starts to run. He runs past huge oaks and tiny redbuds, past milkweed and poison ivy and violet patches. He runs to tiny ponds and tinnier streams, and runs until he doesn’t recognize the houses in the distance. Then he runs further, up sloping paths and steep drops, till the evergreens are more prevalent than the dogwoods, and the air is just this side of cold.

He runs until the barest hint of frost covers the ground, where the snow is seen if you look just right. He runs till he ends up on a hill, and the other side is view of even more of the same.

He turns around, sees nothing but trees, yet somehow he’s reached the top of the mountain.

Part of him wants to howl. Another part wants to scream. But what ends up happening is Derek just starts to walk back. He doesn’t know what he wants. There’s an empty-full feeling in his chest, and he doesn’t know what it means. All he has any idea about is that his pies might be burned, and he wants a cup of cinnamon coffee.

When he gets back, the moon seems very far away. Her yellow face is nearly full, but in the midmorning light it’s hard to see.

His pies aren’t burnt, actually, and the coffee is perfect. He has a scoop of homemade vanilla ice cream with it, and it’s delicious. Derek sits at his kitchen counter and feels as lost as he had in Beacon Hills.

 

He doesn’t want to call Waya back, so he doesn’t. It’s as simple as that. He doesn’t want to hear her yell, and he doesn’t want to yell himself, so to avoid problems he just won’t talk to her until Friday. It’s fine, he thinks, he can get through it.

It’s Wednesday.

He needs to go into town, because he used all his lunch meat up, and Phoenix has a vet appointment. It’s slightly daunting, to go there when he knows Stiles is around, and Waya, and the whole coven who probably know about his blowup with their leader. But he sucks it up, puts Phoenix in her carrier, and drives to the vet.

The office visit goes well- she’s a healthy cat, she’s not gained a lot of weight like other patients, and she seems to be very well socialized. Derek is glad at least something has gone okay. He stops by Ingles afterwards, brings Phoenix inside with him and places her in the cart. He plans on making a quick run, just grabbing essentials and leaving. 

So of course, he runs into Stiles.

They bump their carts in the bread aisle, where there’s a horribly placed support beam that forces minor collisions every day. Derek wants to blame the loudness of the store, the general chaos that comes from being the only large chain store with the only Starbucks in the area. But if he’s honest (which, lately, he’s being more and more), he’s just too distracted with worry to hear Stiles come around the corner. Which is an irony he is just too wound up to deal with today.

“Ah,” Derek says eloquently, when he and Stiles realize just what’s happened. Stiles, on his part, is shocked. “Didn’t think I’d see you here.”

“I- uh, Waya,” he says, startled, and Derek scowls at that. The harpy-witch is somewhere, then, and she probably planned this. “I wanted to get ice-cream,” Stiles continues.

Derek nods. “Yeah. Okay.”

Stiles moves from one foot to the other. Derek expects an inquisition, or screaming, but it seems the neutral battleground of surrounding whole grains is enough to stop him. He opens his mouth a couple times, before locking on Derek’s cart. “I…wow. That’s new.

Derek looks down, confused, and Phoenix is just sedately watching their awkward exchange. “Oh,” he exclaims, “This is Phoenix.”

Stiles quirks a smile, reaches his hand over for her to sniff. “Hey there. Hi.” Phoenix looks at his offered hand with big blue eyes, doesn’t move a muscle. Eventually, Stiles returns his hand with an awkward smile. “Never took you for a cat person.”

“I never had the chance,” Derek says, plainly, and something hurt crosses Stiles’ face. He hesitates in speaking, and Derek spares him. “She’s great though.”

There’s a silence that follows, punctured by the sounds of other carts and the beeps of checkout counters. Stiles looks washed out in the florescent lights overhead, and yet Derek can see how bright his eyes are. He still smells like sweet peppers and dusty sunshine, but there’s a layer of pine, of fresh water and bright violets. The mountain smells good on him.

Derek moves to leave, before he can do something stupid, but Stiles stops him. “You’re coming to the full moon, right?” His face is hopeful. “Waya said you always come.”

He wants to say no, to call Waya a liar and a busybody, to walk away and not think about freckled skin under moonlight. But instead, he nods. “Yeah.”

“So you’re coming,” he repeats, almost a plea.

“Yeah.” Derek really does leave then, backing up his cart and turning. He can feel Stiles grin behind him.

“I’ll see you, then. Friday.”

Derek doesn’t answer, too intent on leaving. In the checkout line, he sees Waya at the Starbucks counter, eyes speaking volumes. He glares at her, and the checkout lady thinks he’s a freak for it.

He ends up driving back slowly, the soft rock station going fuzzy halfway back and having to turn it off. But somehow, he feels lighter.

 

Thursday finds him volleying phone calls from various coven members, who all beg him to attend tomorrow’s ceremony. He has to assure them, individually, that he promises to come, that he won’t miss it, that he will indeed bring potato salad and no, they don’t need to pick him up, that he’ll bring Phoenix for the kids, it’s fine, okay, bye.

He spends the day with the animals, Clara needing a good brushing and the goats needing to be chased around for being brats. It’s calming, honestly, and it allows him to forget how much he doesn’t want to go out tomorrow. But then night falls, the gibbous moon pulls at him, asking him to stretch his fangs and howl, and he knows he has to go. Even though the thought of doing it with Stiles there makes him feel too small for his skin.

It’s difficult to fall asleep, too difficult, so he ends up in the craft room, staring at the art pieces he’d made not long ago. He feels better, after a few minutes, and decides to just sleep in that room. Phoenix joins him maybe an hour later, crawling on the old futon to settle in the small of his back. It’s uncomfortable, but not incredibly so, and the relief he gets from the space outweighs the lumpy mattress below him. He falls asleep quickly.

 

Fridays comes with a foreboding sense in the wind. Derek doesn’t like feeling like this, doesn’t like how on edge he’s been. But he promised he’d go- promised the coven as whole, ever since he started attending, and promised Stiles in person. And maybe it frightens him that he has to share this with someone he’d wanted to forget, but maybe it’ll work out. Maybe.

Still, the day is spent in a sort of nervous terror Derek once associated with phone calls from his school to his mom, and wondering if Laura knew about his dildo stashed under his bed in a shoe box.  
By the time evening comes, he doesn’t know if he can do it. But Phoenix is at the door, aware of what day it is and what it means. And Derek can deny himself a lot of things, but he couldn’t deny this tiny cat a single one. So he gets in the car with a sense of trepidation, and drives to Waya’s land.

Waya lives in what is quite possibly the most powerful acreage in North Carolina. She’d inherited it, as coven leader, and so it’s her responsibility to not only care for it, but to use it for her coven’s benefit. It’s why every full moon, they meet here, to drink magic from the earth and sky. It’s all very poetic, and Derek would probably laugh if he didn’t know first-hand how powerful this is.

The gate is wide open when he drives up, but he knows it’s safe. If the wards didn’t catch someone before they’d do harm, the land itself would.

Waya’s lives in an old Victorian mansion, where the coven used to stay in older times. Once, young woman would claim it was a governess school or a boarding house or a place for spinsters to live out their days. Now, it sits like a landmark, weeping willows framing cheery purple and light pink.

He parks the car behind the dozen others, organized chaos on the huge gravel parking space. He is one of the last to arrive, looking at the vehicles around. He grabs his potato salad- too large for even a werewolf to finish by themselves- and opens the door, letting Phoenix jump out.

He walks slowly to the forest line, still feeling uncomfortable and jittery. He can already hear the shouts of excited children, and the lower tones of adults conversing. It’s comforting and terrifying all at once, and it’s only Phoenix’s steady trek that forces his feet to move.

He reaches the clearing in no time, and he’s greeted with a familiar sight. Picnic tables are lined with blankets, and set with heaping piles of food. Children run around the meadow, flowers already woven into their hair, chasing dogs and cats. Around empty tables sit coven members, weaving flowers and talking in the setting sun.

“Derek!” Angela calls, jogging up and taking him hand. She’s always bright in full moons, fuelled to the brim with energy. “Put the food down, come get a crown!” He follows her to a table where Kathleen and Mark are sitting, each concentrating on a vicious Pokémon battle with their Gameboys. They look ridiculous, wearing flowers and cursing at screens. Angela seats him herself, reaching for some yellow violets already halfway woven. “We’re waiting for Waya, so we can eat.”

He’s finished quickly, Angela being a pro at flower chains, and it’s still a few minutes before dinner time. Derek chases some of the kids around, picks up Mark’s little brother and runs with him on his back. A few of the kids ask to see his ‘scary face’ and he snarls at them while they giggle and scream. Waya shows up in her usual outfit for the night- a large ceremonial cape, and a wooden staff with a huge stone that looks like it was cut from the moon itself. Flowers crown her head in in heaping bunches, and Spooky drapes around her neck like a stole.

Stiles walks behind her slightly embarrassed to be seen with the ruby giants in his hair. He freezes when he sees Derek, and Derek stops as well.

“Hi everyone!” Waya says from atop a fallen tree. “We’re all accounted for, so I want to start by asking for a big welcome to our guest this evening, Stiles Stilinski!” Stiles waves sheepishly as the coven hoots and hollers. “This is the first official full moon of spring, so I can’t tell you how excited I am! But, before the work- let’s eat!”

There is a mad dash to the tables, while others prefer to wait. The groups end up scattering. The kids go back to playing, knowing parents and siblings will make their plates. Before he goes up, he stops by Waya.

“Hey,” He says, lamely, and Waya gives him a quirked smile and a ‘Hey’, back. “I need to say I’m sorry.”

“You do,” she answers, and pats his arm. “-But you just did, so it’s all good. I’m glad to see you.” She takes her staff and uses it like a prod, pushing him away. “Go get food.”  
Derek ends up in line, plate in hand, and that’s when Stiles approaches, with all the trepidation one’d have around a stray cat.

“Hey,” He says, half smile cocked, and Derek tries not to freak out. “Can I step in line with you?”

Derek tries to return the smile. “Sure.” The coven adheres to a strict policy of ‘get to the back of the line’, and enforce it with a passion seen in elderly librarians and sea captains. Now, they all shuffle to make room, allowing Stiles to scoot just enough to be in the line, but forcing him within a very tight range with Derek. He curses the traitors that surround him.

They reach the tables without too much embarrassment, though Derek feels most of it’s on his part. Stiles is confused at the menu, so Derek has to help him out.

“That’s an egg casserole,” He points, “And that’s a dandelion salad. Potato Salad, lentil burgers, uh- that’s spicy mango sauce for the burgers, that’s goat cheese pasta, chili with black beans, lasagna, and that’s some spinach and Brussels sprouts.”

Stiles stares at the table. “It’s…all vegan?”

“Vegetarian,” Derek corrects. “Everyone here has farms, they always use what their animals give.” Stiles looks halfway intrigued and halfway disappointed, so Derek just makes his plate for him. The walk to the nearest empty log has them dodging child and animal alike, but Stiles laughs through it. When they sit down, Phoenix comes up to rub up against Derek’s shin, hoping for a bite of eggs probably.

“Do you all just let them run wild?” Stiles asks. There’s a husky near him, also looking for a hand out, but he’s quickly called by a coven member and runs off.

“They’re smart,” Derek answers, giving in and dropping a piece of cooked yoke into her waiting mouth. She’s satisfied with the offering, and goes to catch grasshoppers. “They know to stay around here, to keep in reach. Besides, they’re watching the kids.” Stiles looks confused, and Derek points to his plate. “Eat, it’s all good.”

He does eat, and Derek can see the surprise on his face when he likes it. He eats it all, in the end, and actually gets up for seconds. Derek blushes when he sees his plate piled with potato salad, and tries to hide it between bites of lasagna.  
Dusk ends, and the clearing becomes darker with every passing moment. A few members say some spells, and great balls of colored lights appear around them. The children giggle in delight, trying to catch them from out of the air.

Derek looks at Stiles, unsure and nervous. “We need to talk.”

Stiles grimaces, but shakes his head. “Not here. It can wait.” Derek opens his mouth, but he’s cut off. “This is a night to celebrate, right? We have time. We- it can wait. It’s ok.”

The sunlight grows darker with every moment, and they sit in a silence that should be awkward. Instead, with the gentle calls of frogs and the background of children, it’s near pleasant. Derek likes full moons around here, likes them a lot. He’s glad that Stiles showing up didn’t- he looks at Stiles, sees the nervous lines around his eyes start to soften, a smile beginning to form. Derek looks away, hastily.

The adults begin to pack up, moving to the forest line to the north of them. Stiles looks around with confusion. “We’re done?”

“Not even close,” Derek smiles. “Come on, you gotta earn dessert.”

 

There’s a smaller section father away, behind a ring of impenetrable pines. There’s just enough room to squeeze through, revealing a perfect circle. Inside are etches sketched into the dirt, lines worn with power and time. As the coven members enter, a hush settles.

The only ones here are those with magic- the other members stay back with the kids. Here, there is only silence- not even the wind of bugs can be heard within these pines. Everyone waits with reverence, looking at their leader.

Waya raises her hands high above her head for a moment, and then releases a clasp around her cloak. She stands naked, then and everyone takes it as a cue. Clothes are shed, now, kicked away into piles, and Derek can see the shock on Stiles’ face. He reaches out and grabs Stiles’ wrist, getting his attention. “It’s ok,” He says, smiling. “It’s your choice.”

Stiles looks at him- he really looks at him, eyes almost gold in the magic light around them, and Derek suddenly finds it hard to breathe. He pulls his hand back, and starts to unbutton his shirt; quick, jerky movement betrays his nervousness, but Derek smiles.

He takes his own clothes off, now, in time to hear Waya start to chant. It’s a low sound, continuous, and unrepeatable. It’s the sound of trees- of water, of mountains, of the moon itself. The sigils etched under their feet begin to glow, faint at first, until others join in, voices giving power and receiving it. Suddenly, Spooky walks to the center, and he disappears with a bright light. The grove becomes encased in shining blue, magic pouring into each of them.

Stiles is lost, he can tell, but that’s ok. He takes his hand, and leads him to the circle that is being formed. They start to sway, slowly, until the chanting speeds up. Then they move with it, walking around, and the chanting becomes a song, becomes something that feels like music. They start to move faster, and the light grows stronger.

The moon reaches its peak, settling into the cradle of the tall pines above, and the circle blasts in light. Everyone sings then, a cacophony of sounds that should be terrible, but only sound like joy. Derek lets himself shift, suddenly, and howls his thanks skyward. Some members try and howl with him, and Stiles laughs as the power around them sparks with bursts of colors.

Derek looks at him then- pale skin dotted with constellations, nervous but full of joy. Spreading his hands out, watching as sparks shoot and dart between his digits. He doesn’t try to sing, but he moves with the voices, gangly and awkward but full of life.

The world is built in circles, he’s been taught. There are cycles of life, of death, of power and destruction. There are things that cannot be explained, and things that should. There is a power that exists beyond the natural, and the supernatural, and it flows through everything.  
Derek looks over to Stiles, whose eyes are wide in wonder, and he thinks this might be a circle, too.

“Come home with me,” he whispers, the chanting a melodic background to how fast their hearts are beating.

Stiles looks at him with moon-lit eyes, pale skin goose bumped in the night’s chill. He’s open, now, with a hope Derek understands, but doesn’t believe could be real. The magic around them is crescendoing, voices rising to near shouting levels. But he smiles, and nods ever so slightly. “Ok.”


End file.
